Good Eats
by Smashing Successor
Summary: The King is dead, but his recipe book lives on. Long live the Queen.


_Many speculated at first that the marriage was politically motivated, but it is said that over time the love they had for one another became clear to see. Their lives were full of warmth and tranquility. Many years later, when Dimitri passed, his journals revealed that he had kept a meticulous record of all the meals he and his wife had enjoyed together._

* * *

The funeral for King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is a solemn, dignified affair. The first three days are spent in mourning, as is the tradition in the North, where everyone, from commoner and noble alike, dresses entirely in black, regardless of their rank or status. The banners with the Blue Lion royal crest are taken down from the castle ramparts, and all businesses are halted for the duration. In each town, a bonfire is lit in the center and kept burning long into the dark. They are said to be beacons for the king's soul, guiding lights for his journey back to his ancestors.

It is a somber time, one that would've surely embarrassed the late king had he been able to witness it. He had confessed to Flayn once in private that he loathed any societal function that drew unnecessary attention to his person.

"At the end of the day, I am only human, like any other person born in this world. It baffles me why the pedigree of one's birth should have any say of their worth."

He was right. As Flayn watches the pallbearer's lower the casket into the white marble tomb, she thinks back on his words. He may have been the king that reunited of all Fodlan, but beyond that, he was only human. He ate, slept, dreamt, awoke like everyone else. He had his likes and dislikes. He lived his life as everyone else did in the world.

And like everyone else, he died too.

* * *

Flayn spends most of the following weeks after the funeral sleeping in one of the many various guest chambers in the castle. She makes it out almost to be a game of some sort, seeing how many they have before she runs into the same one twice. So far, she's winning this game.

Most of the rooms are lavish, obviously intended for high ranking foreign dignitaries or maybe royalty even, with the lightest of down mattresses and pillows that feel more like they were pieced together from clouds rather than materials of cotton and feathers. Other rooms, less so, but no matter the room, it's easy enough for sleep to find her. She suspects that the bed could be made of thorns and the pillow of stone, and she'd still find a way to fall asleep.

As queen, she realizes that wasting away the days in unconsciousness is hardly the most productive usage of her time. Even now, there are still duties she must attend to, both as the queen of Fodlan and as a cardinal of the Church of Seiros. Decades of peace and prosperity and still there are disputes that need to be settled, petty squabbles amongst the people that need to be resolved, lives that need to go on living, regardless of those who died.

She knows that.

And yet, it's just so much easier to just lie down in a bed, wrap herself in sheets that no longer carry his scent, curl up into a little ball and while away the days in a dreamless slumber.

* * *

The servant girls have taken to calling her the ghost in the castle. Not directly to her face of course, just in whispers and hushed conversations in the corners of the castle. Unfortunately for them, she's always had rather sharp hearing, honed after centuries of recognizing Seteth's particular footsteps which always heralded the end of whatever fun she was currently having. She can't find it in her heart to correct them. She can't find it in herself to do a lot of these things, these days.

At first, she thought it was in reference to her age, how she seemed to stay mysteriously youthful while everyone around her grew stopped and withered. Dimitri had been quick to halt any unsavory rumors in that regard, so she pays their whisperings little mind.

It's only when she passes by a mirror, does she understand why they call her the ghost in the castle.

The face staring back at her may as well be a stranger's. There's a hollowness in her cheekbones that had never been present in her youth, and a pale pallor to her skin that makes it look like dough stretched too thin. Her hair, a constant source of pride in her school days, hangs limply over shoulders that are too thin, even by her standards.

_Oh right. When is the last time that I have eaten?_

She thinks back. The previous morning, a maid who looked oddly on the verge of tears had shoved a pastry into her hands, all but begging her to have a bite. The pastry itself had looked delicious, but try as she might, she can't recall the taste. She only remembers taking little nibbles out of it, to satisfy the maid, before tossing the rest of it away when the maid's back was turned. She hasn't had anything else to eat since then, but strangely enough, she doesn't feel the pangs of hunger like she usually does. Odd.

_Perhaps I should find something with a little more_ _sustenance._

* * *

It all tastes like ash.

* * *

One month after the king's death, it finally happens.

Flayn goes to sleep mid-afternoon, in a guest room on the far east side of the castle, with very little foot traffic in regards to the cleaning staff. When she wakes up, for a moment, she is utterly bewildered by how the sun seems to have gone backward in the sky instead of forwards.

It is only when Alexei bursts into the room at that moment, tears forming in the eyes that he inherited from his father, does Flayn realize that she slept the entire day away.

_It's happening again._

The last time she took that long of a nap, she ended up in a future that she hardly recognized, in a world that had moved on before she had.

She should be terrified. But, strangely, when she tries to muster on that same feeling, it seems to slip out of her hands before she can grasp on it, like sand trickling out of a shattered hourglass. Whatever feeling should be there, is not. All that remains is a tiredness that seeps into her very bones and makes them ache.

"I cannot lose you too, mother." Alexei has not been called a child for quite some time, but at that moment, head in her lap and voice thick with unshed tears, she can see the little boy he once was, and not the king that he must be now. "Not so soon after father. I... I can't. I... I..."

"Shhh..." She strokes his head, brushing his hair back and forth, back and forth. She used to do this every time he had a bad dream when he was little, and he'd come to his parent's room in the middle of the night for comfort. Dimitri would wrap his arms around him, resting his little head against his chest and let him listen to the sound of his heartbeat and she would stroke his hair until the two rhythms would synchronize and lull him back to sleep.

"I won't leave you. I promise."

She prays to the goddess that it's not a hollow promise.

* * *

A day of slumber gradually turns into a day and a half.

A day and three quarters.

Two full days.

No matter how long she sleeps, she always wakes up tired, despite her slumber being dreamless. She so desperately wants to dream. At least in dreams, she has a chance to see everyone again and pretend that nothing's changed.

At least in her dreams, she has a chance to be happy again.

* * *

Her son is beside himself with worry, but royal duties keep him unjustly busy, so he assigns Dedue to watch over her in his stead. For that, Flayn is immensely grateful. Not just because the Duscur guardian is an old friend, but if it's for the sake of the king's mental health, Dedue will lie and report that everything is all right.

_Yes, she seems to have eaten a little more of her dinner today._

_No, your Majesty, your mother did not sleep two full days away._

So, one night, when Dedue suddenly wakes her from her slumber, gently insisting that her presence is urgently needed in the castle kitchens, she groggily complies. She owes the Duscur guardian that much at least for keeping her secret.

It's only halfway down the hall do the words pierce the foggy veil in her mind.

"I'm sorry, Dedue, but did you say my presence was required in... in the kitchens?"

The Duscur guardian gives a non-committal hum. Even after all the years, he still manages to effortlessly tower above her, yet his stride never once strays from her side, despite the height difference. "That is correct, Your Holiness."

Decades of friendship have also not changed his steadfast adherence to proper etiquette either, the stubborn man.

The kitchen is empty when they arrive, the fires in the oven having been put out for the day. There's a hanging lamp, just above the island that he lights first. As soon as the flame flickers to life, a warm glow bathes the room, banishing the darkness.

"Please, have a seat."

Slightly bewildered now, she pulls the stool out from the island and sits. She watches as the Duscur guardian begins pulling various foodstuffs out of the storeroom and lights the stove. Soon, the sounds of a knife tapping the chopping board, combined with a soft bubbling as the soup comes to a boil fill the kitchen.

A few minutes later, he caps the soup before heading back to the storeroom and emerging with what looks to be a slice of some cake. He places in front of her, setting the fork neatly next to the slice and gestures.

"Help yourself."

Flayn blinks owlishly back at him, wondering if she's still sleeping and this is all some sort of dream currently. What a strange dream to have, after all this time. "I am not hungry," she says warily.

"Be that as it may, I would still like for you to try some," he says with the same gentle insistence he used to rouse her. Not a dream then. "I am experimenting with a new recipe, and I would appreciate a second opinion."

She can't tell if he's joking or not, seeing as how he keeps his expression deadpan, no matter the situation — an undeniable boon in some cases, an annoying strength in others. For a moment, she considers declining, but in her sleep-addled state, her mind refuses to come up with any reasonable excuse. Reluctantly, she picks up the fork.

The slice looks surprisingly amateurish, considering the caliber of chef that he is. Part of it is crooked, where the sheer amount of icing has forced it to bend with the weight, and some bits look almost undercooked. With no small amount of trepidation, she pares off a small slice and cautiously places it in her mouth.

Almost immediately, a hostile force of flavors assails her tongue, a war of sweet and salty vying for dominance in her mouth. It_ burns,_ good Saint Cethleann on high, burns so severe that she can actually feel the roof of her mouth going numb. By the goddess, how on Fodlan does one make a cake so atrocious that it burns?

With the greatest of effort, she swallows the morsel, blinking the tears out of her eyes as it slides like molten lava mixed with glass shards down her throat. A fit of coughs overtakes her and Dedue dutifully hands her a glass of water, which she promptly downs.

"That was..." she gasps for breath. How to describe it? Interesting? Unique? Avant-garde? "An experience."

"As are most things in life," he agrees blandly, and mayhaps that's the beginnings of a smile beneath that white beard, it's impossible to tell. "By any chance, is the taste familiar?"

An odd inquiry, and yet... Something is niggling in the back of her mind, pushing past the haze of sleep and drowsiness. "It... does. Somehow." She frowns. "Where on Fodlan did you obtain such a recipe?"

"I'm surprised. Shouldn't a chef be able to realize their own cooking when they taste it?"

She blinks. "I... pardon?"

In response, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks to be an old, leather-bound notebook, placing it directly before her on the table. Thoroughly mystified, she picks it up, taking care not to crack the leather any further, and flips open to a random page.

The penmanship is near flawless. Neat, precise, and orderly to a T, as if suggesting that the author spent many decades perfecting their cursive on countless forms and documents that required their signature. And like the cake, it all seems so maddeningly familiar that-

Oh.

"Where..." She hopes that the tremor in her voice can be attributed by the stinging left by the cake. "Where did you obtain this?"

Dedue locks his fingers together, leaning his elbows on the island. Scars pepper the length of his arms, injuries that other, more vain knights would have taken significant measures to try and conceal. Not so for him. Each cut was in service to the king, to be carried with confidence and pride.

"A fortnight ago, his Majesty Alexei bade me sort through the late king's office and put his affairs in order. I suspected his Majesty wished to do it himself, but the memories were perhaps too overwhelming. I found the notebook in a drawer, tucked away rather neatly, which piqued my interest." He inclines his head. "Forgive me if I have overstepped my boundaries."

But she isn't listening to him anymore; attention focused instead on the words on the page.

**_8th of Wyvern Moon: _**

_Pickled and pulled pork porridge. Surprisingly soft despite being pickled and left to stew in own juices for more than a week, as __Flayn__ claims. Very sour, or so I'm told, but with pleasant aftertaste._

**_26th of Red Wolf Moon:_**

_Pepper-pot pie. Simply delicious. Pepper adds delightful buzz to tip of tongue. Aftertaste spicy? Or savory? Need to compare with other pepper related dishes. REMINDER: MUST ASK FLAYN TO COOK AGAIN_

**_2nd of Great Tree Moon:_**

_Cucumber and mustard sliders, __Adrestian__ style. Only partake if weekend is free. Otherwise, prepare beforehand to delegate tasks for following days as bedrest will be required. Lovely kick to it though regardless._

The list goes on, for pages and pages, much in the same style. Dates, dishes, and their tastes. Every single page filled to the margins with notes. Out of curiosity, she flips to the very first page. The pages are yellow with advanced age, yet the notes are as fresh as the day they were inked.

**_20th of Ethereal Moon:_**

_Cheese-less cheesecake. Despite lack of dairy products, sweet enough to make tongue go numb. Teeth feel like they're vibrating in skull. First sense of taste in nine years. _

_Amazing._

"I made these. These are my recipes." Slowly, she lowers the notebook from her face, glancing at the lopsided cake with a newfound (or is it old?) familiarity. "This was my first dish that he ever tried."

Dedue nods. "They are. Despite losing his sense of taste at a young age, I am led to believe that the notebook he kept was a list of dishes that he most enjoyed sharing with you." He gestures with a scarred arm to the pot simmering on the stove. "I've taken the liberty of cooking a few others as well. I thought we could take a moment to celebrate the small things that brought him joy in life, and to honor his memory."

"Why?"

Dedue pauses. "Pardon?"

She raises her head, stares the Duscur guardian evenly in his eyes. "Why should we have to honor his memory?" she asks, weariness seeping into her every word.

The Duscur guardian returns her gaze without flinching. "Should we not?" he asks, yet there's no accusation or recrimination in his tone, just steadfast patience that screams understanding.

Her mouth opens before she even realizes it.

"Why do people say that? Honoring their memory." Her hand toys with the fork, paring down the cake into smaller, smaller pieces. Soon, there won't be anything left except the scraps. "I dislike it. It makes their lives sound so... so... small."

The Duscur guardian's only answer is silence, forcing her to continue. The words come haltingly, falling like stones from her lips.

"People say they honor memories, but they forget that there was a real flesh and blood human behind the memories, each with their own dreams and hopes. A memory is a ghost. An echo. It's a footnote written in the history textbooks, a remark made in passing and forgotten. But a life _lived_ is so much more than that. It's so much more. They- he-"

It's a testament to her weakened state that the fork refuses to bend in her hands, no matter how hard she grips it. The words are pouring out of her now, like a cut that refuses to stop bleeding, no matter how tight the bandage is tied.

"He was so much more than_ just _a memory."

King. Unifier. Warrior. Father. Husband. Best friend. And now, he's none of those.

"It all fades away in time," she confesses in a whisper. "I know it will."

The silence echoes before them. She feels so very tired. Every fiber of her being is begging her to lay down and to forget it all. Let the comforting embrace of darkness numb it all out and take her away.

After a long moment, Dedue unlocks his fingers. With slow and easy movements, he gets up from the stool and back to the stove. A flick of his wrist, he caps the magical fire and begins ladling the soup into bowls.

"I served Dimitri for close to seven decades," he says. His voice is rough, yet there's an underlying lull to it that makes him sound impossibly gentle. "Both as his shield and... as his friend. And yet, not once did I notice that his sense of taste was missing."

He turns around, two bowls in hand, one of which he passes to her, still steaming slightly. The aroma is strong, but not overwhelming. Little trails of steam waft up to her face, ghosting the sides of her cheeks with their warmth.

"I did find it strange how he never remarked on the taste of a dish, no matter how extravagant or exotic it was. I suppose I chalked it up to him not being a picky eater as well as being too polite to say otherwise. Even when he enjoyed the food, the most he would say of it was how so-and-so dish was a favorite of his when he was a child." A ghost of a smile shadows his grizzled face, somehow making him look years younger. "As a man who prides himself on his cooking, I'll admit, it was a bit vexing at times hearing the same compliments paid equally for a dish I had spent hours working on, to a simple fare of bread and cheese."

He picks up the spoon and begins stirring.

"Only after reading his notes, did I come to realize why he always compared good foods with his childhood. To him, delicious foods were less about the taste, and more the feelings that it could evoke from simpler times. From his memories."

Her head shoots up, and she stares at the Duscur guardian. Disbelief and another emotion (_not hope, it cannot be_) war with each other on her face. His own face is gentle, a port of calm in a turbulent storm.

"It is true, that with time, memories will fade. That is part of being human. But even if they do, I believe that the feelings will remain. The same feelings we used to create those memories. Hope, happiness, peace, love. Those emotions will remain, even when the memories themselves are just words on paper."

She can feel her hands shaking, the fork trembling like a leaf blowing in the wind. She wants so much to believe, wants so much that she feels her heart physically _ache._

"What makes you so sure of that?" she asks, a plea in her whisper. "How... how can you be so sure?"

In response, the Duscur guardian simply nods towards the notebook.

"Isn't the proof in your hands right now?"

...Oh.

Dumbfounded, she stares back down at the book. Proof of a life lived, in her very hands. Feelings of love, pain, hate, grief, acceptance, joy, all enclosed in parchment and ink.

And real. So very real and raw that it _hurts. _

Slowly, she picks up the fork again and cuts off another piece of the cake. With trembling hands, she lifts the morsel to her mouth and swallows, feeling it sting the inside of her mouth with its clashing flavors. But with each piece she tastes, the sting lessens, more and more, until the only thing she can feel in her mouth is a blinding warmth.

By the time she's on her fourth piece, she's tossed the fork aside in favor of using her hands, crushing into the soft bread between her fingers with a starving fervor. Each morsel she stuffs gracelessly into her mouth turns the flavor more salty than sweet.

It is only after Dedue silently offers his handkerchief, does she realize that she is crying.

"Do take care not to oversalt the food," he says with a smile when she waves the handkerchief away.

She lets out a choked laugh, to both their surprise. "It does seem to be a recurring theme around our cooking, does it not?" she remarks, and when he turns away to chuckle into his hand, she pretends not to notice the way his fingers brush at his eyes.

When she finally finishes the slice, her face feels as though it is on fire, bits of icing and cake flecked over her mouth and cheeks. She can feel her nose dribbling like a spigot and her eyes water endlessly, no matter how many times she blinks and brushes the tears away.

But for the first time in a long, long time, she feels full, the dull ache replaced with a delicious warmth that fills her from the inside and refuses to subside.

"Do you think this will make a good story to tell when we see him again?" she asks

And when he smiles, she finds herself returning it.

"One of many."

* * *

The royal tomb back in the capital is actually an empty coffin. Dimitri had been insistent that when he died that his body be laid to rest in the one place where he had found his happiness again. Seteth had been more than willing to oblige, requiring minimal persuasion on Flayn's part and that had been that.

If anything, Captain Jeralt and his wife would appreciate the company.

Flayn sets the picnic basket down and settles in comfortably on the stool her father had provided her. The grave is unmarked, for privacy's sake, save for the short inscription chiseled in the middle.

_**The Noblest of Hearts, at Rest and at Peace.**_

She is silent for a moment, tracing the inscription with her eyes, before raising her head to the blue sky above.

"Hello again. It has been some time, has it not?" she says, smiling into the warm breeze. "For that, I must apologize."

"_No apologies are necessary," _he says, suddenly coming from around the marker. He sits next to her, cross-legged and leans back, palms on the ground behind him. "_If anything, I am the one at fault for departing so suddenly."_

"Oh, shush you. You are always much too eager to play the blame game with yourself," she gently chides, swiping at his shoulder. He ducks away with a laugh, and she has to smile at how boyish his face turns, the spitting image of Alexei when he was a child. "Anyways, I brought a surprise for you. Ta da!"

He looks over, and his one good eye widens when he sees the notebook resting in her hands. "_Oh goddess, where did you find that?"_

"A lady must have her secrets. And you, my friend, are much craftier than I give you credit for. Were you expecting to keep this lovely gift all to yourself?" She clucks her tongue. "Rather selfish of you, I must say."

"_It was __Dedue__, wasn't it? He's always been too fastidious for his own good, I swear._"

"Mayhaps. Mayhaps not, who is to say? Though there is one entry, I found particularly interesting. Here." She clears her throat, resting the book in her lap, and begins to read.

"'_4th of __Harpstring__ Moon. Baked wyvern with mushroom sauté. Very tough, but gamey flavor well worth every bite. __Flayn__ refuses to say if an actual wyvern was involved and deflects all inquiries_,' which is followed by a line of increasingly anxious question marks and a small note, '_May have committed some unknown crime by partaking in mystery meat. Goddess forgive me.'_" She gives a little huff. "Friend, your words wound me! Who do you take me for? Of course I would not force you to partake in a whole wyvern!"

"_Oh__ thank __Seiros_."

"Just parts of it." Only when he reels back in mock horror, does she let the contained laughter bubble forth from her chest. "Kidding, kidding! It was fish meat mixed in with oats, I swear!"

"_I should have known,_" he grumbles, arms crossed, before letting out a sigh and resolutely clapping his hands together, a wry smile forming on his face. "_Fine. If we are to have an afternoon at my expense for your amusement, then so be it! Come then, my lady! Another one, I insist!_"

Flayn smiles, closing her eyes for a moment to think. Somewhere in the monastery, she can hear the sounds of everyday life, the easy chatter as students move from one classroom to the next, eagerly discussing what they just learned. She imagines the dining hall filled to the brim with its delicious smells and sounds. Elsewhere, ghosts of laughter drift down the hallways, replacing the silence with a nostalgia not found anywhere else.

She opens her eyes.

"Oh, very well then." The smile on her face grows wider as she lets the gentle breeze turn to the next page in the notebook. "If you insist," she says, basking in the warmth of the memories one more time.

* * *

_As for me, if I am ever to be but a memory in your future, I want you to remember me in a way that brings you joy. I would want you to smile when you recalled me, to feel warmed by the notion that I cherished your company._


End file.
